Inception (It's My Choice)
by UuenTheYueRyuu
Summary: Tony is a genius, billionaire, philanthropist, superhero. And a Dreyrugr, as Thor calls it. But, meh. Details. Then he meets the bane of his existence and the love of his life all rolled into one, perfect Captain Spandex of Fucking America. Based on Supernatural's s5e6. Disclaimer: Avengers/anything relating not mine. Rating may/will go up to M. STONY
1. Inception

This story is based off on _Supernatural_'s s5e6 but is no way a crossover with it, so one does not need to know _Supernatural_ to understand this story.

Story in no way religious.

Mentions of/implied domestic abuse of Howard Stark on Maria Stark.\

Mentions of _Winter Soldier_ or, possibly, weaving in with it.

Tony is still teenaged in this story, but IM1 still occurs (with some changes to suit this). Oh, and J.A.R.V.I.S. is an automaton.

Steve is still in the ice at the beginning, but, not too far along, Tony will find him-stony ensues.

Rating of story will change in future chapters to M for sexual content.

This story can be found, also, on AO3 by the same title under the username 'YueRyuu': ( (slash) works (slash) 1815415 )

Enjoy!

...

˹_You are part daemon_, they said; _but you're also part human—it's your choice_.˼ But he couldn't stay with his parents, much less with his biological mother whom had so kindly dumped him in an orphanage.

He knew she had wanted him dead, yet, from the grace of her heart—the inkling in her that desired forgiveness for the blood she was drowning in, the blood she involuntarily spilled under Possession—she couldn't do it, despite every sense that screamed at her that he would bring great destruction should he fall in the wrong hands—in the hands of the daemons.

So, she had abandoned him.

And it hurt, much more than what he had expected, for he had a mother who had not even bothered to name him—had left him first chance she had caught at the doorstep of a church in vain hope it would keep the Evil away—and another set of mother-father who had promised to maintain his safety and happiness upon his adoption but more often than not travelled far, far away for days on end, sometimes even months, leaving him alone—but never truly alone; he had reprieve in himself, after all—to care for the household (and himself) that was miles away from any mention of population.

Nonetheless, he loved his father and two mothers unconditionally, never blamed them.

He was an extremely eccentric child, notwithstanding, who preferred to dismantle and recreate every last piece of machinery within his reach and immerse himself in the wonders of science, especially those of the chemical and engineering nature. Most of his classmates where at least half a decade older than him at school—that is, when he managed to catch school—and was shunned away from everyone except for the bullies whom wanted nothing more than force their homework upon him or land a few punches and kicks here and there.

He didn't blame any one of them, despite the hardships. He just hated being lied to—that was his only problem.

Sam and Dean promised safety—_lies, lies, lies_—somewhere far, a place where neither the angels nor daemons could grasp. He knew he had to leave, wished he could stay and retain what delusions of normality he once had.

That was all it was, though: delusions.

_He couldn't do it._

The daemons wanted to use him. The angels wanted him dead. The humans wanted nothing to do with him.

He was a monster, he constantly reminded himself, yet the human aspect of him clung to hope like a tenacious cockroach. ˹_You're a superhero_, Sam said, and the daemon spit and gnarled the fantasy, but Dean rebuked it just as facilely, reminded him he had a choice: a destroyer or a protector.˼

_He couldn't do it. Didn't know what 'it' even was._

˹_Why are you telling me this?_ he demanded, too close to a scream for his tastes.

_Because I want to believe,_ the taller of the Winchesters explained, countenance distraught with the weight of the world,_ while I couldn't do it, someone else will do the right thing._

_Your choice, kid_, Dean chimed in.˼

So, he left. Just like that. With a simple, tiny thought of _I want to leave_, and, true to his wishes, he was gone.

Too gone, apparently.

He never really will know how screwed he was. What he had done to himself. Nevertheless, here he was, standing before some extensive gates with the words _St. Castiel Refuge of Our Young: International Connection_ scripted in dark, curling metal, the second orphanage of his life, lost. Homeless. Alone.

Empty.

A branch crunched, and he swivelled about—_where am I, where am I, where am I_—heart leaping into his throat.

_Who am I?_

"Oh, geez," approached a young, pretty woman, an old scar running down and across her face in a jagged line. Her English was strange-sounding—British, he thought and subsequently wondered what in the world 'British' was; "I am so sorry, honey; I didn't mean to scare you." Her clear, pale-green eyes swept over the wet landscape, searching, till, eventually, they landed back on him. "Are you," she queried slowly, as if afraid, tentative, "lost?"

"…Kind of," he allowed, gaze swallowing his surroundings, mapping the land in case the need to run arose—from what, he did not know. "Where is this place?"

Her smile faltered slightly, shoulders sagging under the sudden cloak of grey emotions that depleted the glitter in her eyes. "It's a special place where some kids stay until they find new mamas and papas." She paused, choosing her next set of words carefully. "Do you know your name?" Not _what's your name_, he immediately noticed.

_Who am I, who am I, who am I_—

He blinked. Tried to remember his origins, why he was here. Why it felt like a gargantuan weight had risen from his chest, leaving his body trembling with such relief tears pricked hotly, threatening to spill. "No, I don't," he realized, shudders running unbidden through his spine; "and I don't assume you do."

The young woman seemed to mistake his shaking and wet, wide-eyed stare for something else entirely, for she was enveloping him in her arms, pressing him close to her heat and stroking her fingers through his hair.

It helped, somewhat; the tears wouldn't stop.

"Shh, it's all right," she murmured, a broken record; "it's all going to be all right, baby; I've got you. I've got you; don't worry."

"No, I…" He pushed softly at her chest, and she relented her hold of him enough, her hands coming to rest at his elbows; watching him silently and intently from her crouched positing before him. He bit his bottom lip. He 'what'? "Sorry," he eventually settled on, sniffling and wiping at the stray tears tracing a glistening path down his cheeks. "I'm sorry."

Her smile was back, at least, and he did not know why that relieved him as much as it did. "Hey, no, there's nothing needing to apologize for." She held his face, softly, between her strangely cold, small hands, locking their gazes and stroking her thumbs over his cheekbones, drying the dampness at the corner of his eyes; it tickled his eyelashes, as he told as much.

She laughed as she stood, holding out her a hand invitingly out for him; he took it without thinking "How about we go inside and get you some tea? You must be freezing, standing out here in this bloody cold." The gates seemed to open automatically upon her presence, and they continued to walk down the stoned path to the building beyond. "Or do you prefer hot chocolate?"

"Coffee." Whatever 'coffee' was. The tears were gone, at least.

"Oh," the vowel melodic in her voice, "a big boy, are we, eh?"

He couldn't help the giggle that caught him. "Of course!" he exclaimed, as though a notion of otherwise was appalling, "I cook my own meals, too, you know. Canned soup, mostly."

Hazy pictures of two tall men in suits flashed by his mind, askew and blurry.

˹_Huh. No, it's nothing. It's just I used to make my own meals when I was a kid, too. Brings back memories._

_I'm not a kid._

A chuckled._ No, of course not._ ˼

"…have to do that here, now. Oh, before I forget, you can call me Mary," she—_Mary_—was saying, and he had to shake his head in favour of ridding himself of buried memories and retaining on the now. He had finally found acceptance; he wasn't going to ruin it. "You'll fit right in, I'm sure."

This was the start of his inception.

It was his choice, after all.


	2. Captain Spandex: For the Better or Worse

"Anthony?"

He turned to give attention to the new occupants of the room, forcing himself past the trance of engineering he had fallen in for the past four hours or so: a man in a meticulous three-pieced suit with a mustache sitting comfortably atop his lips and the familiar face of Lisa. He thought he could see an unknown woman trailing behind Mustache & Suit man.

"Yes, Mistress Novak?" he sighed, almost a grumble, sarcasm heavy on his tongue. They'd gone over this a million and ten times already—he wasn't going anywhere. Kicking him out in a year or whatever, but he wasn't goin' with no stranger.

Not after last time.

"Anthony," she stressed his name lightly, a fair warning, giving him The Eye in such a way Mustache & Suit couldn't see, "this is Doctor Howard Stark." Well. What an unpleasantry to have someone with your same last name.

Howard Stark, huh. What was the CEO of Stark Industries doing in his room? "A pleasure, Mister Stark," he greeted with a curt nod; "I admire your work." He refrained from voicing his dislike for the weapons' manufacturing—wonderful pieces of machinery, they were, but deadly. Deadly equals bad. Tony no like.

"And I have heard much about yours," the smirk evident in his tone despite the stony features. "You have accomplished quite a lot for a seventeen-year-old, Anthony."

Tony wasn't stupid; he knew where this was going. "And you want to use my genius for your genius," he deadpanned. "I'm good, thanks." The internal workings of S.I. were so unpleasant even Hell would curl in on its self.

Something darkened through Stark's expression, so murky and hideous Tony couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through him. "I have an offer you wouldn't think to refuse, Anthony," he wiled, the threat hanging open and heavy for those who knew where to find it.

He scowled, sending as many unpleasant vibes as he could muster from the squaring of his shoulders and his hardened stare. "And you can go fuck yourself, Mister Stark."

Lisa gasped, her eyes flying as wide as saucers at his petulance. "_Anthony!_"

"You can take your offer and shove it where the sun don' shine," he continued, ignoring the apologies Lisa was frantically pleading to Stark—"I am so sorry! I don't know what's gotten into him; he's usually so nice and—"—"I'm pretty sure I know what's gotten into me, Lisa, if you will," he jerked his head at her, telling her to take her leave; she shot him a glare, but she left, nonetheless, with a brief, worried glance at him by the doorway.

Sigh. _She knows me too well, that Lisa._

If looks could kill, Tony would probably be rolling around to and fro his grave fifty times by now, judging by the piercing gaze of Stark. "You dare—"

The woman in the background flinched away.

Schooling his features into a serene mask, he stood and got all up in Stark's personal space. "Yeah, I would dare. 'Cause I know this other fuck-up just like you, _Mister Stark_," he spat the name with such contempt it might as well have spontaneously combusted, "and he didn't do so well against me. So I'll kindly advise you to _fucking leave_."

He vaguely was aware the walls had begun to shake and the windows to keen in their frame, the lights flickering violently. He couldn't care to control his anger—this man was too much like the awful memory of Obadiah Stane for his liking, and nothing concerning Obie—_Obadiah_ could pass under his skin without rattling him to the core, the ache throbbing and wailing under the arc reactor sitting without a care in the world where his sternum should be.

The earth shook under their feet, the wooden tiles shifting and creaking ominously.

Stark was peering all around him like a frightened animal, despite his attempts at composure, muttering something or other about the abnormality of an earthquake in the northwestern tip of Europe.

"_Get out,_" he growled, the light-bulbs exploding under their forced perturbation, glass shards raining down and about; a window cracked, the fracture running up the transparent surface till it encountered the wall, where the crack began to slowly extend.

Needless to say, Stark—and the hesitant woman trailing after him like a scared, tiny shadow—was out of the orphanage's premises in five minutes flat, his gait quick but not slow enough to retain what little pride he could.

The woman slowly followed him out, and Tony did not miss the manner in which Howard shoved her inside the vehicle and slammed the door behind her, barely missing cutting off her foot in the process.

_Bastard,_ his thoughts began darkly, and Tony immediately closed them off when he saw their effect:

Stark slipped in a puddle of mud that was more water, landing awkwardly on a wrist, flat on his back. A few inches away from a protruding piece of jagged metal pointing at the skies.

The metal hadn't been there a second ago.

Tony huffed, low and—falsely—contemptuous, eyes trailing after the fancy car Stark had arrived in until it disappeared into the distance. "Serves him right."

"Doesn't serve _us_ right, Tony; wacha gonna do when Jarvis comes back'n sees the mess you've done? _Again_."

He shrugged half-heartedly. "Tell'im you did it."

Clint scowled at him. "I _knew_ it!"

Tony rolled his eyes. "You always know something." He reclined on the windowsill, hooking his hip up, hands burying themselves deep into his pockets, as he regarded Clint with a critical eye. "What are you doing here, either way? You're gonna get yourself kicked out. _Again_."

"_Please_," Clint uttered self-appraisingly; "who do ya think you're talkin' to, huh?" He sauntered closer till he could recline as well on the same windowsill as Tony, his bare arms crossing over his chest. "What are you going to do when you get yourself kicked out?"

"Meh," he lifted a shoulder noncommittally. "Go wild, I guess; build myself a suit of armour or somethin' equally awesome."

Clint bumped against him amicably, a corner of his lips lifting in a semblance of a smile. "We both know you know I know you know that's an old dream done and accomplished."

"Don't get ahead of yourself with riddles and big words there, Barton; your brain might croak over."

"Ha-ha, very funny, Stark. I have a high school degree, I'll have you know."

"_Psh_! And I'll have you know I will be graduating in a week with advanced degrees in physics and engineering from M.I.T. Suck it, _bitch_."

"_Jerk_," he countered. His expression softened, then, a tinkle of mirth in his usually rigid stare sprouting, as he nudged him with an elbow. "Congrats, geek."

˹_Stop being such a whiny bitch, Sammy; if the kid's gone, he's gone. His choice._

_Jerk. _A sigh._ I know. It's just…_

_It's just nothing; you heard Cas. Let's go._

He breathed in relief, watching them leave through the aperture between the doors of his closet. _They're gone…_˼

He didn't know how to deal with such blatant praise, the heat rising to his cheeks proof enough, so he all he could do was an awkward shuffle of his feet and mumble a "Thanks" under his breath.

Drowning away the butterflies fluttering in his gut, he peered up—the bastard had grown taller than him—at Clint, something akin to hope tightening his chest around the reactor. "You gonna make it?"

"I hope," he shrugged. "I have an assignment coming up in Russia; don't know how long that'll take."

"Russia, huh?" Hope dwindled, the weïrd sensation replacing it too similar to disappointment to be acknowledged. "You goin' with Tasha?"

"Yep," he confirmed, "she's the one who knows the place like the expanse of the blade she thinks I don't know she's hiding in the strap of her bra."

"Ooh, careful with that, Barton; she might gouge an eye out with her pinky."

Clint grinned. "Wouldn't know till I try."

He laughed, shaking his head in mild disbelief—mild 'cause, c'mon, this was Clint they were talking about here. "You're gonna get yourself killed, man."

"I'll take my chances—those thighs are _so_ worth it."

"I thought you were into Agent." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

The pretty, pink colour blooming all the way down to Clint's neck was so worth the punch to the arm and the sequential stumble that nearly sent him onto the floor.

"You're a bastard, and I hope you drown in your massive ego. See how much I care when Pepper runs you over with a mower one of these days when she's decided she's fed up with you."

"Wouldn't count on it," he grinned; "bet Rhodey would run me over first with his car, which, by the way, I just so happened to have built from scratch in three days tops."

"Subtle, Tony, subtle," he rolled his eyes in mock-exasperation and punched Tony again, right over the previous one for good measure, their usual salutation (Anyone see the wrong part of the sentence? Heh. Clint just liked seeing Tony's indignant expressions.). "See ya'round, bitch. Have fun with your geeky life." Just as he was half-way down the hall, Clint turned to point at his eyes with a 'v' and then an index finger at Tony.

'_I have eyes on you, Anthony Edward Stark._'

"You wish!" Tony called as Clint disappeared around the corner after, of course, flicking Tony off.

Which is when Jarvis decided to appear. Shit.

"You never cease to amaze me, sir, with the neatness of your quarters," the automaton drawled with such dry sarcasm the room was a desert.

"Uh…" Tony faltered, cringing; "I can explain?"

"Without a doubt, sir." Tony didn't want to know whether that was a snarky comeback or not. "And I am sure you can explain whilst you clean up this mess."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, "I'll get the broom."

"No." Jarvis caught his wrist—not forceful but just enough to halt; never, ever forceful—the hydraulics of his joints smooth and flowing, something Tony took with the pride of the proudest parent (as weïrd as that sounded, considering J looked a good five years older than him); the robot's visage conveying emotion, a strange factor Tony had not meant to compound. "Sir, the way you acted—"

Tony breathed past the sudden rage bubbling within, closing his eyes to withhold his ire and the unbearable urge to take out his frustrations on something/one. "_Don't_, J. just…don't." He exhaled and inhaled slowly several times, heaving a sigh in the end. "I'll clean this mess up later; m'tired."

Jarvis didn't retract his hold, though. "_J_. Let go."

"I apologize, sir, but there is a reason you wished for my immunity against your every whim, even if subconsciously." He let go, either way, but did not stray far—nor did he allow Tony to. "I hear it eases the heart to talk of one's troubles to a trusted one."

"Oh, that's just playing dirty."

Jarvis' lips quirked up. "You know it, sir."

He chuckled. "I built the snarkiest A.I., I tell you. Kill me."

"Would never think of it, sir."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire—can see right through you, J." He sauntered away, gait carefully calculated to not give himself away, but, going by The Eye Jarvis was stabbing into the back of his head, it wasn't working very well.

He fell under a veil of silence, the cheery mood Clint had brought on earlier running itself into the ground with no suggestion of ever desiring a return; peered down at his hands, studying them intently, afore forcing his gaze away and towards the night that had befallen the world outside, not liking the train of thought his brain was mauling away with them.

Didn't want to think of his own thoughts.

He wondered how fucked up he must be to be able to form that sentence and ring it true.

"Sir?" Jarvis prompted.

Tony sighed, knew that in this event he had no choice. "Howard Stark came by and offered a little somethin' or other." He swallowed, working past the sudden lump in his throat, and reflexively clenched his hands into fists—they wouldn't stop shaking. "How the hell does he get the nerve to walk in here? Especially after everything that—"

He shuddered violently, the burst lights working against all laws of physics to blink repeatedly in tempo with his body.

God, he was some kind of freak.

Jarvis was there, then, enveloping him in an embrace that shouldn't be as comforting as it was—he was a year away from adulthood, for fuck's sake—yet Tony found himself leaning into the touch, pressing his forehead to Jarvis' shoulder to inhale the subtle hint of oils and metal tangled in a scent weïrdly akin to eucalyptus that was uniquely his A.I.

"You are no…_freak_, sir," the snarled word making Tony laugh despite himself; "you are you." He pulled Tony away to run his thumbs in soothing circles around cheekbones, the action so alike Mary the reactor ached. "And any esse to speak otherwise will face my wrath."

Tony smiled, the gentle gesture genuinely warm. "I love it when you speak dirty to me, baby."

Tony didn't know he could, but Jarvis did it, either way, leaving the former stricken with amused surprise: he rolled his eyes. "Your antics are truly something to behold, sir."

"D-did you just…?"

"I am plenty sure you know what I did." He patted him on the shoulders, purposefully adding a bit too much strength to snap Tony out of his stupor. "Now, off you go, sir; off to bed. We will speak of today in the morning."

Tony narrowed his eyes at Jarvis. "I don't like you," he commented offhandedly, but he was headed off to his quarters, nonetheless.

Not to sleep, though.

He had some research to do—particularly on Howard Stark. Like how the fuck the man knew where to find him; what the man's idle threat had all been 'bout; the story behind the poor woman obviously scared shitless of the guy.

Whether Howard had known about the underhanded dealings of his business partner.

A bit illegal digging—okay, _very_ illegal; sue him, whatever—in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s 'super-ultra-secret' (_Pfft. Yeah, right._) databases here and there; came across a few things he probably shouldn't have leaked onto the Internet; and only succeeded in finding out the man apparently was a complete (_weïrd, freaky, Code: Red Alert_) mega-fan of Captain Spandex, judging by the sheer amount of money Mustache & Suit—yeah, he was seriously sticking to that; now, stop digressing, brain—was pouring like water to an Olympics' pool just to find the fallen Legend still sitting most probably dead and frozen in a glacier somewhere in the Arctic Circle.

And that Howard Stark was secretly suspected of domestic violence. Well, not so secretly anymore—he kind of sort of leaked it to the press. Oops. Too bad, so sad.

"What are smirking so much about, Stark?"

"_Jesus Fucking—_are you trying to kill me?! You're insane, Natasha! Give a guy a heart-attack, will you?"

Natasha just pressed a finger to her red, red lips. "Quiet," she warned and meaningfully jerked her head.

'_Follow me._'

He couldn't exactly refuse her—he was still convinced she could kill with her pinky—so he followed her out, away from the dormitories, down the main hall, and out the back-entrance.

Where he found Director Nick Fury reclining casually against the brick wall.

"Glad you could join us, Stark."

Tony eyed him warily. "I'm not sure if I should feel honoured or if this is the part where you start shooting and I start runnin'."

Fury regarded him with his lone eye for some few, (extremely) tense moments until, finally, he said, "Follow me."

Tony barely refrained from sighing exasperatedly—he was secretly fan-boying here 'cause, yeah, he could admit S.H.I.E.L.D. was a tiny, little bit on the awesome side. "How much following are we doing tonight? 'Cause I've got this overprotective A.I. with a tight leash around my neck, and I'm not planning on finding out any time soon what that metaphorical leash could really do."

Fury didn't even bother glancing at him. "Not far, Mister Stark. Just far enough."

Well. That didn't sound ominous.

Natasha chuckled next to him, and, _whoa_, he forgot she was even here. "Not going to kill you, Stark." Tony could've sworn he heard the trailed _At least, not tonight_.

They reached an SUV parked just beyond the gates, where Fury finally turned to him and stated quite frankly, "We need your help."

Tony blinked. And blinked.

_What?_

"Maria Stark was here today," he forged on, ignoring Tony's apparent confusion, with such certainty on her location Tony had to wonder how many eyes and ears S.H.I.E.L.D. had lying about the orphanage; that hadn't been on file. Not that he knew that, of course; _I don't know what you're talking about…_ "She hasn't been seen out in public for the past seventeen to eighteen years."

"Not since her miscarriage." Ah, shit, him and his stupid, big mouth. "Which I, uh, know nothing about." Maybe it wasn't in his best interest to avoid eye-contact. "Clearly."

"Yes," Fury easily agreed, looking as unimpressed as ever, "clearly."

"Why do I bother to hang out with you idiots," Natasha muttered under her breath in her native tongue, which, of course, Tony had been studying up on—knowing multiple languages was sort of required in their gang of misfits—and wisely decided to not comment on her finally admitting to being a part of them.

"Right." He cleared his throat. "So. Where do I come in? I'm not seeing the pattern here."

"For a genius, you are pretty slow."

"Hey! I resent that."

Was it Roll Eyes at Tony Stark Day? 'Parently. "Be that as it may," Fury was still ignoring him, "we need this particular set of genius to bring down S.I. and subsequently Howard Stark."

"Okay," he allowed, slowly. "Aside from my genius part, I still don't see where I come in. Or why you want to bring down S.I., seeing as it is your most major weapons' provider and Howard Stark is one of the founding fathers of S.H.I.E.L.D. Much less where Maria Stark comes in all of this."

"Howard Stark had become obsessed," Natasha explained. "He's unstable; takes out his frustrations on Maria and hides his deeds behind literal closed doors."

Tony had known, but hearing it and reading it are two very different things. He shuddered. "Too obsessed with finding Captain America, an entity lost to the ice of time. Literally. And Howard has been searching for him for the past half-century or so, fruitlessly." So he took it out on his wife, whom was as innocent in the proceedings of the second World War as anyone not even alive to have experienced it as a toddler.

It made him sick.

Something within him shook, the vibration slight, almost unnoticeable. And—_stupid, stupid, stupid_—he ignored it. Counted it off as nothing.

"Yeah," Natasha crossed her arms, "that's about right."

"Her miscarriage," interjected Fury, folding his hands behind his back, "heightened his stress, especially after some…unpleasant things Howard and Maria did to keep their kid alive but only succeeded in making matters worse."

"Whoa, whoa, back the fuck up." Oh, god, what had he gotten himself into this time; this wasn't good for _his_ stress levels, barely able to catch his spite before the ground began to quake. "They did _what_? And you just—just _let it happen_?"

Natasha shifted—as fine as guilt, coming from her. "We didn't know until recently. I infiltrated S.I. as Stark's P.A. and had the unfortunate pleasure of finding out about all of the illegal proceedings occurring under the direct orders of Howard." She briefly glanced at Fury, a silent request for permission, Tony noticed. "Because he needed more money to continue searching for Captain America; S.I.'s stock market is falling, rapidly—this era is a time of peace; there's no room for weapons any more, no wars to fight. They keep this information from the press, of course, and continue on their merry way."

Fury was eyeing him again, assessing—for what, Tony did not want to know; nothing good was gonna come out of this mess. "Which is where Agent Romanov came in: to figure out where the money that shouldn't be there was coming from. And we end up figuring it out…and more. Too much more. The WSC isn't happy, and they want S.I. to be brought down, inch by inch—and then rebuilt.

"By you."

He stared, incredulous. "By me."

"Yes. By you."


	3. Until Thor

Tony stood before the looming massiveness of Stark Mansion, a nervous tick splaying his fingers where they tapped the Golden Ratio against the casing of the arc reactor; Jarvis silently at his side exuding serenity as if the creation was the embodiment of the abstract sensation itself.

He shifted, forcing himself past the incredible urge to pace. "I can't believe I'm doing this, J."

"I have long lost any semblance of surprise with anything you do, sir, but this does warrant some level of concern: changing your appearance to that of Arno Stark as the boy would be at a later age for the sake of bringing down S.I. under the, to place it frankly, orders of S.H.I.E.L.D.?" The _Have you lost your mind_ unneeded to be announced, loud and clear in the A.I.'s tone.

Tony inwardly grimaced: this was stupid, even for him, where 'stupid' more often than not was undermined by 'brilliant'; borderline suicidal. Nevertheless, not one to retreat from a challenge, especially one so blatantly thrust to his face—and, _boy_, was this one heck of a challenge—he wheedled, perhaps unsuccessfully, "Actually, this is probably not as bad as donning the suit; likely my least idiotic idea."

"Indeed," Jarvis conceded after flicking Tony assessing, reactor-blue eyes.

˹ "What makes you think Howard will willingly accept me as his heir after I sent him running with his tail tucked between his legs? Much less why you think I would ever volunteer."

"We don't," Natasha responded simply.

Tony scowled.

"We are aware of your little side-job, Mister Stark, and we understand the extent of our coinciding interest." Going by his one-eyed, there wasn't much approval on the matter.

Allowing smugness peer through the quirk of his lips—he already knew they knew; being best buddies with one Colonel James "War Machine" Rhodes had that sort of intel S.H.I.E.L.D. purposefully kept off their servers because of, well, because of Tony—he prompted them further with an elaborate wave of a hand. "So? What makes you think I'll work along with S.H.I.E.L.D., given your not-so-pleasant records?"

"We can offer you protection." It wasn't Agent Romanov presenting: just Natasha, fellow orphan and one of most precious friends.

Tony couldn't find it in himself to refuse.

"Fine," he conceded, a bit more bite than intended snapping forth; "all right, whatever. What's the plan? I work my genius and steal intel with one of your agents giving back-up?"

"Close enough.

"The plan is simple but complex: One year from now, you will head off to Stark Mansion, New York, and infiltrate the Stark household by posing as the 'apparently not dead but in recuperation off in hiding' Arno Stark. Howard will suspect, of course, but he will offer you the empty seat of co-C.E.O. of S.I. to not raise suspicion of his own suspicion, since, by law, you—or, rather, Arno Stark—would automatically be the next heir. From there, you will _subtly_"—yeah, right, 'cause everything and anything Tony does is subtle—"release incriminating information to the press. I trust you know how to carry on from there."

"Duly noted. And what, exactly, is S.H.I.E.L.D. gonna be doing during that lovely year of anticipation?"

"What S.H.I.E.L.D. does best." ˼

Tony rubbed at the immaculate beard he had been growing—apparently, he looked a good five years older (not to mention quite different) with facial hair, the approximate age of Arno Stark should the unlucky guy be alive—and shook the nerves stiffing his shoulders with two, sharp jerks of his neck that had Jarvis glaring at him disapprovingly for the resounding cracks that followed the motions.

"If you snap your neck one of these days…" he trailed off ominously.

"What can I say," he shrugged; "I try my best." He cleared his throat as he rolled his shoulders in an increasingly failed attempt to relieve tension. "We just strut right in? Wait for Tasha? God, I hate spies—and waiting. Ugh, the anticipation."

The plan S.H.I.E.L.D. had meticulously unfolded had gone down-hill when Howard and Maria Stark were caught in a car accident several days ago and subsequently died, truly tragically for underserving Maria—Tony wished he could have done something before her untimely death to relieve her pain—and, not so surprisingly, only those who benefited from the Maria Stark Foundation mourned. (The media had tried to fake-mourn for Howard, but the façade quickly fell once a grander topic arose not several hours later. But Tony found pity in the man, for he understood the sort of life-changing inspiration Captain Rogers brought about—imagination barely grasped the sensation of what meeting the Legend in his Legend-y flesh could have possibly felt like.)

Of course, that had not impeded S.H.I.E.L.D. from continuing its infiltration of Stark Industries—yes, he knew what they were doing. Hello, genius here—while a thought sprouted and bloomed, roots penetrating and ensnarling, the branches reaching impossibly high:

Technically, with no Arno Stark Wannabe in sight; Stane still retaining half-stock of S.I.; he still labelled as adopted under Stane's (hideous) wing; and that lovely spot as sub-head of R&D remaining under his name, everything—from the Stane and Starks' private property to anything S.I.-related—would fall in Tony's hands, no questions asked. It was only a matter of whether Tony would step up to the throne. And he would—just as Arno Stark, at first. Sort of.

For Tony was at fault for at least half—perhaps even more than that—of the manufacturing of weapons, improvised or otherwise, throughout the several years he had been under Obadiah's two-faced care, where he was unknowingly pulled into a grand scheme of coup d'état. Tony should have seen the signs—berates himself every passing day for it—right from the moment nearly a year had passed (and the subsequent years that followed his adoption) and Tony had yet to meet the famous Howard Stark Obie—_Obadiah_ enthralled so much about.

So, he had made a promise to Yinsen during…well, _during_. A promise he was bound to by blood, heart, body, and soul—Iron Man or not.

'_Don't waste your life.'_

Sometimes he wondered if the weight of the world was supposed to be too much for a just-leaving-the-teen-hood, yet all he felt was burning, pure fire manifesting in his veins; veiling his being with the sense of moving forward, forward, _forward_ till everything and everyone within his wide-reaching grasp could be properly hailed 'safe'. He had had Rhodey and Pepper so far along for the ride with him, helping and supporting anywhere they could and, not too far behind, Clint and Natasha everywhere else; and, well, Jarvis, but he supposed Jarvis didn't really count, seeing as the A.I. was his creation.

Other times—rather, more often than not—he wondered if he deserved these precious, precious friends, what he ever did to deserve their undying friendship.

Jarvis shot him an unimpressed stare, words—no, _paragraphs_ manifesting of the exasperation rolling through the A.I. "Do work on your patience, sir; it is as microscopic as the mere radius of an unstable Pym-particle."

Tony pouted—there really was no other description for it—indignantly. "Yeah, but you can do it in, like, five seconds."

"I thank you for your trust in my abilities, sir, but I much prefer to keep an eye on you myself, seeing as you are often susceptible to being kidnapped." It was dark out, barely bright enough to see more than a few meters beyond. "And I am sure Miss Romanov will be done scouting soon," Jarvis assured, and, as if on cue, Natasha was leaping down from four levels up and bounding across the extensive lawn towards them in two minutes flat.

"I'm not that bad…" he muttered under his breath, hoping to not be heard, but, appraising Jarvis' darkly dubious mien, the words had not gone soundless.

"Everything's clear," she reported, nary a hair out of place. She raised a delicate eyebrow Tony's way, challenging a contradiction. "And, no, you really are that bad."

He frowned at her but wisely decided whatever retort he had in mind would not be received kindly in the very least, much less at all. "Great. Awesome." He clacked his fingers in the manner he was prone to when finding himself too idle. "You gonna let me in now?"

"Depends. How long are you going to keep that ridiculous 'stache?"

He turned his nose to the air. "I'll have you know I am perfectly handsome like this."

"Uh-huh," was the disbelieving reply, lightly teasing. "Just get in there before I decide to shave it off, sequential arterial damage forewarned."

He shuddered. "That is one mental image I did not need."

"You're welcome."

He had one step forth when Natasha warned, "Don't mess up," and promptly disappeared into the throngs of the night.

Tony released a breath, forcing the jittery out of his limbs, and hardened his features, demeanour falling into determination. "All right, J. Let's do this."

"I refuse to be your butler, no matter what we allow the public to believe."

Tony couldn't help it—he laughed. "Whatever you say, J."

…

In the successive passing month, he had gone through all of the Starks and Stane's property, perusing absolutely every niche and cranny he came about; searching for concrete proof of the underhanded dealings, on papers or otherwise. He already had the dirt on Obadiah, of course, after Afghanistan and the following events that led to an N.D.E. for Pepper and the (not) lovely first-time meeting of Agent Agent, but, try as he may, Howard Stark's servers were hard to crack, unsurprisingly—for all of two hours, that is.

"Man, this guy's stuff is tough _shit_," the contempt clear in Rhodey's countenance. "Providing equipment to Advanced Idea Mechanics for on-going projects of human experimentation?"

"An' pha'z nah all, Rhoez." Clint swallowed thickly, wiping from the corner of his mouth a spot of crème from the donut he devoured in one giant bite. "I'm supposed to kill you if you ever held this information—Clearance Level Seven and all that—but what Director Fury doesn't know won't kill'im or, well, _us_: Howard participated some decades back on some human experimentation on his own son, Arno Stark."

"The Rigellian Recorder 451," elaborated Tony. "Which I, uh, know nothing about."

Clint pointed at Tony, eyeing him half-seriously over the rim of his usual purple sunglasses. "I'll pretend I just didn't hear that, Shellhead."

Rhodey whacked Tony up-side the head. "Stop hacking into military databases, Tony."

Tony rubbed at the back of his head, glaring. "You sound like Pepper. Stop it; it's freaky."

"And I'll be much more than that if you don't stop pokin' around where you're not supposed to."

Jarvis sauntered in, gait as graceful as ever, carrying a metal tray with a fancy pyramid of scones and a set of tea. "Colonel," he advised as he set down the tray and began serving for three, flicking mirthful eyes at Barton when the archer regarded the A.I.'s entrance gleefully at the sight of food, "it is useless trying to pound some sense into Sir's pig-headed brain."

"Hey! I resent that."

"Indeed."

Tony resolutely did not pout.

Clint moaned in delight at his first bite of scone, a bloom of warmth and perfectly textured bread exploding in his mouth. "Oh, my god, Stark, make me a robot, too—this whatchamacallit is the _beast_!"

"Not a robot," he replied automatically. Then, "It really is," Tony agreed after his own bite. "New recipe?"

"Yes, actually," Jarvis informed; "I believe it belonged to Mistress Stark, as I found it in a hidden cabinet in the kitchen with her signed initials on the inside cover; it seems she secretly endeavoured the culinary arts."

"Well, that's one hell of a secret. She must've been a helluva amazing cook."

"That's two 'hell's from Rhodey," Tony nodded wisely; "the verdict dons Maria Stark as an awesome cook, all contradictions overruled."

Jarvis smiled, the fondness twinkling softly in his eyes. "Of course."

The A.I.'s smile always caught him off-guard, the heat rising unbidden to his cheeks proof enough, and, as Clint was equally prone to, the archer exacerbated the flush by poking Tony on the cheek, cooing stupidly and annoyingly, especially when Tony attempted to swipe the intruding appendage away and grumble out a "I am not _cute_, Barton—I'm handsome. _Hand. Some._"

"Hmn," hummed Rhodey, the traitor, "nope. Don't see it. All I see is that stupid 'stache."

He narrowed his eyes at Rhodey. "I'm feeling a conspiracy against me starting here."

"No, against your facial hair." He gestured to his own face to represent Tony's. "It's not really working on your 'I'm actually four years older than I look' shtick you futilely are attempting to erase."

"Fine, fine." Tony rolled his eyes. "I get it already—the 'stache goes; happy?"

"Ecstatic," he deadpanned.

"Hey, Tony?" Clint interjected around a mouthful, the words barely understandable. "Can I keep you're A.I.? He's _awesome_, man."

"I thank you, Master Barton. It appears I get more appreciating from you within an hour than I have ever gotten throughout a year."

"You wound me, J," Tony mock-mourned with a hand clutched over his heart.

"Never, sir," came the dry tones.

Rhodey cleared his throat. "Huge digression we just did there. Let's get back on track."

"You devour all of my fun, Rhodey; so not fair," Tony grumbled. "Well, there really is not much else to tell other than Howard Stark may have been an underhanded horse, but he was nowhere near the hideousness of Stane."

Clint snorted. "Tell me about it."

A moment of silence passed, the chirpy expunged to that of grim reality, and he turned to the youngest, expression unusually serious. "What are you planning on doing, Shellhead? I haven't known you long, but I know you enough to know the wheels are turning sideways in that giant brain of yours, nothing near what S.H.I.E.L.D. wants, I'll bet."

Tony smirked. "How much you willing to bet?"

Deciding to humour—as it often was the case—the still-teen no matter how much Tony vehemently denied it, he mussed, "Eh, fifty hundred thousand grand, maybe more;" he shrugged and, deciding now good time as any, brought up, "I was planning on retiring from the Eagle's one-eyed watch." Which he had been contemplating for quite some time now but never really knew how to bring it up, casually or otherwise, in a conversation—the assassin shtick he had going just wasn't doing it for him. Never did, really, but once in the business, always in the business, as Natasha had said.

Tony's eyes—already biologically and very appealing large—went impossibly wide. "Wait—are you serious?!" A hand snaked through his soft curls, splaying the locks at awkward angles, and then dragged down the side of his face, scrubbing at the skin there. "Jesus _Christ_. Does Natasha know? What about Agent?"

Rhodey remained in shocked silence.

Clint lifted a shoulder, something akin to a shrug but too meek of a motion to be considered much; he fiddled absently with the end of a thread. "Not really—"

"'Not really'? What do you mean 'not really'—?"

"—but I suspect Tasha knows." His lips quirked wryly. "And Phil, too."

"Ugh. Of _course_, she would know," he muttered but the good-naturedness of it was there in the manner he mock-scowled. "She stabbed me on the neck! With a needle!"

"Yeah. 'Cause you were _dying_. I'm still very, _very_ _mad_ at you for that stunt you pulled, Anthony Edward Stark. You," Rhodey began addressing Clint, and the latter inwardly winced, "I am trying hard not to be mad at for not telling us sooner, seeing as you at least had the decency to spill." And if he sounded too patronizing? Well, being in his mid-thirties as he was, it was hard not to think of these two as his own sons. In fact, if the military contract weren't in the way, he would have adopted them long ago, but, even then, he would have still been too late, too young.

It plagued his mind like a curse.

…

Clint had fallen to the shadows, in the proceeding year that passed, retaining silence about his wanting to leave Club Fury's Toadies but blatantly refused any assignments, which, of course, got him suspended for indeterminate amounts of time on more than one occasion when Clint just as stubbornly refused to budge his mouth; while Tony…

Tony was in the spotlight. And he hated every single, little microsecond of it. Except how they all seemed to stupidly gaze at him upon first meeting, like he had three arms or something.

Truthfully, he had not wanted to acquire as much attention as he inadvertently had, but going around greeting one person as "Arno Stark—in the flesh back from the dead. How'z it goin'?" and to the other next to that previous one as "Anthony Edward Stark, Stane's adopted son—no, not Howard's son; 'Stark' is a popular last name, you know. Just 'Tony' is fine", flashing each a blinding smile that had them all blinking shakily under his overwhelming presence. And wondering what the hell was going on.

Needless to say, Fury was living up to his name.

"Just _what the fuck do you think you're doing_."

"What do you think I'm doing?" he shot back.

"You have compromised—"

Tony rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, groaning. "_Please_. Like you ever thought I was going to stick to a plan, much less _your_ plan. I'd be incredibly stupid to even consider that."

"Mister Stark—"

"No, _you_ listen to _me_, Director." And to further prove his point, he shoved himself right up Fury's personal space, heedless of height differences that he more than up with his personality, and preened himself when he caught the appalled look Agent shot his way, for once dropping the composure. "I can do whatever the fuck I want, how I want it, when I want it, and I don't need your _fucking permission_." Obadiah had been one to choke him with a leash. Tony was done with that. "So you can take your plan and shove it—"

Let's just say Tony wasn't on friendly terms with S.H.I.E.L.D. much these days.

A few weeks after that, when Tony was more than certain he had secured his position as C.E.O. and Head of R&D—and gotten Pepper a position as his P.A.—he called for a press conference to which, surprisingly (though, he really should have seen it coming), Natasha and Agent had arrived for.

"All S.H.I.E.L.D. infiltrates have been unfiltered from S.I.," Natasha informed blankly and promptly disappeared.

Agent peered after her graceful form with what Tony suspected to be amusement before turning to Tony with an apologetic smile for the simple yet complex nature that was the scarlet superspy. "The Boss is not happy about that, by the way," he said, and Tony could hear the _When is he ever?_ "But he gives his"—reluctant—"regards."

He couldn't help himself: "And you?" he asked, the neediness subtle but still _there_, and he cringed automatically. "Uh, sorry, stupid question—"

The next smile A—_Phil_ gave him was small yet happily genuine. "I believe in you, Tony."

The press conference went as expected: the stock dropped sixty-four points within the week, but Pepper—lovely, amazing Pepper—sunk her unyielding claws, and, by several months later, Stark Industries had blossomed outrageously and out of control, stocks rising nearly two hundred percent from what S.I. had been at its former 'greatness' under Howard and Stane.

With no weapons manufacturing in sight.

Really, he loved Pepper—always had; first friend ever and all—but he really, _really_ hated meetings.

Despite a set-backs—had he mentioned how much he hated meetings? _God,_ he _abhorred_ meetings—life was good. Great. Awesome. He built himself a mansion _in_ a cliff in Malibu—he did all of the heavy lifting and shit all by himself, thank you very much—in which he, of course, hogged the basement (and more, but Pepper wasn't supposed to know about that) as his workshop, installed Jarvis' J.A.R.V.I.S. into the entire structure (just to see Clint squirm), and invited everyone to the rooms he designed and decorated in the taste of each of his new residents with several or so to spare, which everyone promptly took without a second glance.

So. He had eleven residents—including J, the bots, and his self—living under his roof. Not even the orphanage had been this crowded, but that wasn't a fair comparison, seeing as, after Clint—his only fellow orphan—had run away a year before Stane had adopted him, the place had been deserted entirely. Best of all, his secret—no, not the Iron Man one; that was hardly a secret—was safe, trusted only to the ears of his creations.

Until Thor.


	4. Chapter 4

Thor had the beauty of a god—all firm, broad muscles on a tall frame with expert proportions—and tenfold the power to back it up. Stuff from the Viking legends. Except—

"I am no Viking," Thor denounced.

"Ri~ght," Clint nodded slowly, an eyebrow quirked with incredulity. "And I am no archer."

"You dare belittle the name of—"

—one minor character flaw: hot-tempered.

Nevertheless, the guy had the charisma of a prince, regardless of already pertaining to a royal stand in Asgard, and, if Tony was being truthful, it kind of scared him how rapidly Thor was able to become another piece in their puzzle of Misfits in the incredible span of a few months, what with being noble and shit. Quick to anger but just as quickly to trust.

Surprisingly, even Natasha seemed to trust him, while it had taken a year going on two for her to present Tony any sign of such. Clint, on the other hand, of course, had taken to Thor like the latter was a great, big puppy to play around with. Tony often found them—sometimes with Tasha, when she happened to be around—goin' at it recklessly and unbound, ending with Clint sprawled facing the ceiling on the floor, breathing hard and sweaty, as he pointed up at Thor looming over with that huge hammer of his cocked on the hip and claimed the victory of the next bout, to which the demigod would boom a laugh and admit to "be most inclined to await for that time!"

Tony had never seen Clint grin like that, so beaming with energy.

Not that Tony was jealous—quite opposite, really. He himself had never smiled as much in a bit of a while, and even Fury had noticed the difference in his mood, the creep. It was, after all, his secret joy to admire the happiness in others. Not that he was admitting to such or anything…

But, of course, all nice things must come to end at some point—Tony's just happened to be more abrupt this time around.

"I have a query of great importance I must discuss with you, young scholar, 'in private', as you Midgardians say," Thor approached, catching Tony at a rare chance of breathe outside of the 'shop, the bittersweet scent of coffee mellifluous in the kitchen air. Never a good sign.

Tony turned to face the melancholic tone, not quite expecting the nervous expression; it put him on edge. "Sure, Point Break," he half-forced a stretch of the lips. "What's up?"

"The skies, I believe," he replied with a confounded brow. "But that—though they may be a grand sight any rise of sun—is not the matter of my plight."

"That's not—you know what, I'll explain it to you later. Does the 'shop sound good?"

"Aye."

So, after refilling his umpteenth cup of coffee, he led Thor down some flights of stairs and into the workshop.

Jarvis was there, laying on the couch, as elegantly as ever, connected to what seemed like hundreds of wires, recalibrating and rebooting and updating his systems, code by endless streams of code.

At the unusual scene, Thor stopped to watch, contemplation befalling his features like only a character out of Shakespeare's hand could ever hope to. Tony shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, coffee forgotten.

He cleared his throat as surreptitiously as possible. "Uh, you wanted to talk about something?"

Thor turned to fix him with that stare—and, boy, was it even more unnerving. "A matter that has plagued my mind, yes. A manner I know not how to phrase, for it is a delicate one—I wish it not to bedraggle our friendship, but, alas, I fear that the case, should it partake the dangerous path. The path I very much desire to stray from; I value you, my shield brother, highly and am ever indebted to you for your hospitality."

Tony stared, stoic-faced, bewildered by the pure sincerity in Thor's words, in those millennia-old eyes, but determinedly forced the astonishment for insight on a later date called never. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can work it out."

"Aye," Thor nodded, "that is what I hope.

"Young scholar, what troubles me are mere speculations founded in a famous read originating many kings afore that spoke of a boy—a Midgardian whose blood was tainted by the spawns of Hel, for the boy was the to-be vessel of the undead king of Valhalla. They poisoned this boy's body so the king could not re-awaken within and, in a bout of vengeance, destroy Hel. As a consequence, the boy, bestowed the name Dreyrugr, had become the ultimate equal of the great Yggdrasil itself—more powerful than all of the Nine Realms together—and promptly dissipated from the omniscient eye of Heimdall. However…"

Panic fluttered in his chest, compressing around the reactor. He knew this tale, this story of a hunted boy who ran and ran decades and centuries through the lapses of time. He swallowed thickly, croaked, "'However'…?"

Thor smiled, briefly. "Apologies, but this is hard on my heart.

"However, upon my ungraceful"—he seemed to grimace—"landing on Midgard, Heimdall has confided in me he has regained sight of the Dreyrugr."

And then his storm-blue eyes settled on him, a heavy meaning behind them.

_Crap, fuck—_Thor _knew_. Well, actually, that was a stupid inference: of course, he did! Why else would he bring it up? And to him, of all people, the one out of five who abhorred magic second to Clint?

Wise of many centuries, Thor regarded Tony's quickly whitening expression carefully, an expectant look about him. "Am I wrong, young scholar?"

Tony stared, blank.

"Well?"

The world seemed to compress into a black cloak, and he sunk, wobbly, the anxiety attack palpable in his rapid breaths.

Thor rushed to support him with a hand at the elbow, barely catching him before Tony's knees hit the ground.

He seemed to curse under a gruff exhale of air. "This is not what I had anticipated, young scholar, when I had envisioned the going of this event," Thor apologized. "Now, do breathe for me; I do not wish to see you blacken out."

Tony tried to breathe—he really did—but his easily worst nightmare was playing true: They were going to exile him, he could feel it in his bones; call him a freak. A monster. Or they would use him as some dissecting experiment, to see what made him tick.

After all of these years—_so many years_—of hiding and running away, only to be brought down by some alien god from another world.

"Young scholar?" Thor was pleading; "Anthony?"

"I…I…" Tony shuddered, grappling at Thor's ever-present armour, digging his fingers uselessly at the metal platings. "It's…"

Big, warm hands were rubbing up and down his back, heating clammy skin. "'Tis all right, Anthony; 'tis all right."

Sorrel turned to stare into azure, desperation clinging with a tight thread in Tony's eyes. "Don't…You can't tell anyone. They—_they want me._ They can't—they—"

Thor did not ask who 'they' were, simply promised, "I shan't. I shan't; do not worry." But Thor could not help but worry, brows drawing together unbidden. Whoever had cause such distress in his friend— "I did not mean to cause you panic, young scholar. I merely had wanted to know why one with powers like yours does not show his true strength in the battlefield and was afraid you would see my wonderings as insolence and a challenge to your virility."

The laugh that escaped Tony's lips had come as a gasp. "Fuck, like anyone could wound my massive ego."

Thor chuckled, and that was the end of that.

Or so he had hoped.

…

Aaaand I don't know where I am taking this. Fuck. Why do I keep doing this? Anyone who does is welcome to take this story up as his/her own baby, either as a continuation or as the inspiration for another.


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